


i'll stop the world and melt with you

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:10:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4954621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's the 80s rockstar/groupie au you never knew you wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll stop the world and melt with you

**Author's Note:**

> Because Twelve playing guitar is my kryptonite.  
> This is not part of the 'intarsia' series, it's an AU.

Every so often he looks out into the crowd, all of them soaked magenta and yellow from the lights, and locks eyes with this girl who looked halfway between innocent and dangerous. It's a turn-on, of course: half the reason why you even join a band in the first place. He convinces the keyboardist to dedicate their next song to her, and he watches her dance as the electronic rhythm stirs the crowd into a frenzy.

So they play a good set, thank you everyone, goodnight. He waves to his bandmate and heads to his dressing room for a little post-show relaxation. Just as he's getting into a cigarette and rooting through the fridge for a beer, there's a pounding on the door.

"What?" John yells.

He opens the door to discover two burly security guards holding a feisty girl - the girl - between them. She's trying and failing to wiggle her way out of their grasp.

"We found this - " one of them says, giving her a shake, "wandering around backstage."

John rolls his eyes. "I'll take it from here. Ta."

"You shouldn't do that," he warns her, shutting the door behind them. "You could get into trouble."

She cocks her hip at him. "Maybe I want to get into trouble."

John surveys her, then, and gets an eyeful: she's the whole bit, eyeliner and fishnets and a tiny tartan miniskirt that barely covers her thighs, let alone her ass. "So who are you, then?"

"I'm Clara," she says, swinging herself onto the couch he's got set up for himself in the corner of his dressing room. She unlaces and kicks off her Doc Martens as she continues, "And you're John Smith. I saw you. On the cover of Rolling Stone."

John thinks that if he rolls his eyes again, they're going to get stuck that way. Meanwhile, Clara adjusts her legs and he gets another flash of creamy thigh - this time leading up closer to the dark shadow between her legs.

To distract himself, he puts out the cigarette and rifles through his records. John always brings records with him - call it post-show ritual, call it superstition, he calls it a slice of home. He travels a lot for the band, but something about music keeps him grounded. "Mind if I put something on?"

"Sure," she says. Her hands are folded in her lap. He notices that her nails are painted navy - such a tiny, inconsequential detail, but it makes her seem young. Makes him picture her, in her room, painting her nails in careful and even strokes with photos of him all around her. He wonders if she'll talk about this to her friends, if this will become bragging rights.

Something about her, though, tells him otherwise. She surveys him with dark and serious eyes, like she's trying to take him all in and notice his details, too.

"Like Bowie?" he asks as he puts the "Let's Dance" single onto his record player.

When she responds "Yes," it's brash, enthusiastic. But he can tell that for all her bravado, she's nervous: her hands are shaking. "Do you have anything to drink?" she asks in a small voice.

It relaxes them both to have something to hold. Soon they're laughing, trading stories: he tells her about his travels, she talks about how she loves to teach and wants to be a teacher someday.

Having her this close, though, is driving him crazy. It's fucked up, he reasons, as he watches her smooth her palm over her thigh. She shouldn't be any different than the other groupies, but there's something about her - how she seems to have such a good head on her shoulders - that he wants to totally ruin.

On impulse, John sets down his beer and grabs her wrist. She looks up at him and responds to his silent invitation. He watches as she straddles his hips and grinds against him, eager for the slightest bit of friction against her cunt.

He runs his hands over her thighs and kisses her, once, twice, three times, more; their lips meet in an endless string of overlapping patterns. It makes his head spin with how restless and wanting she is. She's panting, moaning into his mouth as he tears down those fishnets. John never really got why girls wear them - they always seemed so silly and flimsy anyway.

"Please - " Clara says, and John pauses.

"Tell me what you want," John says.

"Need to - " She grinds her hips against him again. "I want you inside me."

John doesn't need to be asked twice - he's grateful for an excuse to get out of his sweaty stage gear. Their clothes lie forgotten on the floor now, and the record has long since stopped. Time seems to slow down, then, as he slides into her cunt from behind and nearly loses it in her: how tight, how slick she is as he's enveloped in her totally. Everything narrows down to her gasping breaths and the silkiness of her skin, the way her hand comes to rest over his - those long, thin fingers meshing together as he massages her clit.

Her voice rises to a whine when he slowly pulls out of her. "No, wait - "

"C'mon," he grits out, digging his fingers into those perfect, perfect thighs as she lowers herself onto him. "Show me how you take it."

"Oh," she sighs. "Your dick feels so good - "

Under all that makeup, there's a high, pink flush on her cheeks. Her eyes fall shut and she whimpers again, mouth open, as she starts to come.

The only sound in the dressing room is her orgasm, a music all its own.


End file.
